


The Betrayal

by dragonaderp



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood wow such blood, Confusion, M/M, Pre-A Scandal in Belgravia, Sad such sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonaderp/pseuds/dragonaderp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock finds out that John has been cheating on him, he no longer knows what to do in life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Betrayal

When they were both seated on opposite armchairs, John fidgeted.

“Just tell me, John. Please.”

“Sherlock, I...this isn't your fault, remember that.”

“What isn't?” Sherlock asked, panic creeping into his voice.

“I'm...having an affair.”

Sherlock merely blinked, the words not fully registered.

“What?”

“I'm cheating on you.”

“You have...okay.”

“Okay?” Over his guilt he looked confused as well as worried at Sherlock’s seemingly non-reaction.

“You...you’re...with someone else...okay...” Sherlock muttered almost to himself, before his legs were burning, which he ignored. ‘But I love you, John!’ Was all that flew through his mind.

“Sherlock, your tea!” he heard in the distance, a million miles away from his body. John was having a relationship with somebody else...his John wasn’t really his John after all.

“Who?”

“That doesn’t matter. Here, give me your cup, stand up.”

“Then why? I thought...” Sherlock was now crying, though he didn’t realise it himself.

“I...” John’s face tightened slightly, betraying his turmoil “I just don’t love you. You’re not who I want to be with, and I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t want to hurt you.”

John’s attention was drawn to something else for a split second before he focused himself again, but Sherlock was too distraught to notice.

“How...how long have you felt this way?” he stammered.

“A while, I suppose. Sherlock, you really need to get up, the tea...your legs might be burned.”

“It’s transport.” Sherlock spat, hurt painting his face. “Who is it? Who took you from me?”

“It wasn’t like that...”

“WHO?!” Sherlock practically screamed.

Sighing dejectedly, John turned away.

“Jim Moriarty.”

“Mor...the man who sponsored the cab man? You’re cheating on me with a criminal? No, of course. I should have known. Stupid, stupid!” Sherlock stood, turning away. “I knew this was never going to last. I'm not enough, of course I'm not. Why have a broken man when you can have a fixed one who's just as clever?” Sherlock was talking to himself, getting more and more highly strung by the second. “It’s alright, I understand. You should be with someone who makes you happy, and I don’t make people happy. I make them angry, and sad, and offended, and I hurt people. Who could love a sociopath, and who could be expected to...it’s alright John, it’s not your fault at all. You can’t help who I am.”

“Sherlock, that’s not...-“ John tried, but was already being spoken over again.

“I hope he makes you happy. You deserve better than me, and hopefully he’s what you need. Just don’t let yourself get hurt. I won’t go after him, as long as you're together. I suppose you'll be leaving then?"  
"I..." John had no idea what to say to help the detective, who looked like any word could be the one to shatter him. "Should I call someone for you?"  
"Who would care?" Sherlock mumbled, sitting back down numbly, his face totally empty. "There's no reason to feel guilty, I forgive you. I love you, so I won't go against your wishes." he said towards the floor, looking for all intents and purposes like a rag doll, the spark that was Sherlock gone, replaced with heartbreak.  
Feeling like he was choking, John walked out of the flat, turning the corner before pulling the ear-piece out and throwing it across the road in fury. Flagging down a taxi, he made his way to meet Moriarty.

Inside the flat Sherlock hadn't moved. He stayed like this for hours, illogically denying what had happened for as long as possible. He didn't want to feel anything. Not his love for John, nor the aching betrayal. He briefly contemplated going out and finding a heroin dealer, but couldn't fathom leaving the flat. Standing alone took almost more effort than he could bear. Walking into the kitchen, he pulled open the cupboard he stored his test tubes in, only to grind his teeth. If he hadn't always been leaving experiments around the house John might still be here. Suddenly incensed, he grabbed rack after rack of glass tubes, throwing them in anguish, before opening the next cupboard, beakers, and started throwing those too. If he hadn't been so annoying and irritating, John might still be here. Microscope slides next, he noticed that his arms and hands were being covered in cuts, blood covering his skin. He didn't care; John wasn't here, nothing mattered any more. Subconsciously grateful Mrs. Hudson was away at her sisters, he threw the glass slides at the walls, screaming. If he hadn't been such an insufferable bastard, John might still be here. If he didn't cause discomfort in everyone he met. If he didn't treat John like a helpful service half the time. If he didn't stay silent for days on end. If he didn't get caught up in cases. But John wasn't here any more. John didn't love him any more, maybe never did. Hadn't he said he had felt like that for a while? Maybe he had just gone along with the relationship because he could tell Sherlock wanted it, and was being selfless. Maybe he had never wanted him at all. Sherlock felt sick at the thought that their entire relationship could have been based on John pitying him,the freak, the creepy one that no one liked, the sociopath. Sinking to his knees, he grabbed at the glass shards before tightening his fists, blood running onto the floor. He was worthless, and deserved to be alone. It was a good thing John was rid of him. He was far better off.  
Sherlock slumped to the ground, lying sideways along the kitchen tiles and piles of broken chemistry equipment. There he fell asleep exhausted, tears mixing with the debris.  
The next day, he woke to searing pain where the glass was still embedded, as well as the minor burns from the tea accident yesterday. Seeing no reason to stop the physical pain, which mildly distracted from his emotional distress, he stayed there, until his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out slowly, internally hoping it was John, he noted the caller ID, Lestrade. Deciding to ignore it, he let it ring out three times, before the DI gave up.  
Not knowing how long after this, most likely hours, he heard a knock on the front door. He couldn't find the energy to try and get up, so left it. The sun was going down again when Lestrade called again, in vain. He really was persistent, Sherlock noted in the back of his mind. Not feeling tired, Sherlock still fell asleep, not wanting to think and so having nothing to keep his mind awake with. The next time he woke, it was to loud crashes, before the door was broken down. As Sherlock tilted his head slightly to see the newcomers, he saw Lestrade look around before his shock gave away the moment he saw him.  
"Sherlock! What have you done?! Where's John?!" the DI asked quickly, kneeling down next to the wounded man and wondering how his flatmate could allow something like this to happen in their home.  
"John...John. Gone." Sherlock mumbled, his mouth not cooperating with his mind. Obviously the blood loss was affecting him.  
"Hey, I'll need an ambulance on Baker Street, 221B. Yeah, he's lost a lot of blood." Greg said into his mobile while lifting Sherlock from the kitchen floor and dragging him to the living room. Hanging up with a promise of an ambulance in ten minutes, Greg sat down next to the man.  
"Sherlock, stay awake. Help will be here soon."  
"Don't...deserve..." he slurred, trying to sit up and failing.   
"Where's John, Sherlock? Where's he gone?"  
"He doesn't...doesn't love me. He just...left. Not...coming back."  
"Oh God." the DI rubbed his face, understanding, although not really. He had seen the way John looked at the detective, surely the man wouldn't just up and leave Sherlock.  
"It's alright mate. Everything'll work out."  
When the ambulance finally came, Sherlock was lifted into it on a stretcher, Greg following in the police car. As he drove, he rang Mycroft.  
"Mycroft, don't panic, but I'm on the way to the hospital."  
"Are you alright, Greg? What happened?" He could hear the slight worry in the usually calm man's voice.  
"It's not me, it's your brother. Multiple lacerations from a hell of a lot of broken glass. Now I don't want you contacting a hit-man or anything, but John left, well, permanently, I think."  
There was silence on the other end of the line for a full minute before the elder Holmes spoke.  
"That is unusual. I will look into it after I see my brother." he said coolly, tone worrying Greg.   
"Mycroft, this isn't just something you can-" he started but the man had already hung up.  
In the hospital they bandaged him while giving him a blood transfusion, which they found out when a nurse came to bring them to Sherlock's bed. He was drowsy but awake when they entered.  
"Oh brilliant, I suppose the yard already knows about my utter failure. Here to gloat, Mycroft?" Sherlock said through gritted teeth, looking away from them. Beneath the obvious irritation, even Lestrade could see he was hurting.   
"Sherlock, what happened?" his brother asked, ignoring his question.  
"I suppose he told you?" he said, referring to the DI.   
"He told me John left you, rather permanently."  
"He did. Yesterday." Sherlock said, as if that was the end of it.  
"But why? John loved you." Greg was instantly sorry he asked, when the consulting detective began to cry.  
"I thought he did." he sobbed, moving onto his side, facing away despite the pain in his hands and arms. He couldn't face them when he was like this.   
"What do you mean? Of course he did." Mycroft almost chastised him, though it sounded more like concern.   
"He told me he doesn't. Never did. He's been..." Sherlock practically choked trying to say it "he's having an affair. He left to be with them instead." He completely dissolved, covering his head with the thin hospital blanket as he broke down in front of the two older men, who didn't know what to do. "Just leave me alone. I don't want to talk to anyone."  
"Sherlock-" Mycroft tried but Sherlock shouted from under the covers to leave, so they did. Out in the waiting room, Mycroft pulled out his phone.  
"Anthea, I want John Watson's location, from two days ago up until now." he ordered before hanging up.  
"Myc, what are you gonna do?" Greg tentatively asked.  
"Find out who Dr. Watson has been seeing, firstly, and after that decide whether or not I'll kill them both."  
"You can't be serious." Greg exclaimed, earning a level stare.  
"I never joke about Sherlock."  
"You can't kill them! Sherlock would never forgive you!"  
"He wouldn't have to find out."  
"Mycroft, no. I consider John a friend. I'd rather talk to him and see his angle."  
After his partner glared at him, Mycroft sighed.  
"I promise I will not take any actions against John or his partner. At least, until we understand the situation better."  
It was two days before Sherlock was discharged, against his brother's wishes. Despite Mycroft urging him to stay for longer, Sherlock left as soon as possible before getting a taxi alone back to his flat. Locking the doors, he told Mrs. Hudson to not let anyone in to him.  
It was another day before Mycroft called him.  
"What?" he asked harshly, not hiding his contempt.   
"Do you know where John is?" he asked almost smugly, but he could tell it was hollow. Mycroft knew his brother was fragile, and merely kept up the façade of everything being the same.  
"Of course I do. He told me. Fuck off." he barked.  
"Sherlock, wait." Mycroft urged before he could hang up. "I have reason to believe he is not with Moriarty willingly."  
"And how would you know anything about that? He told me himself."  
"But if there was a chance, even a small one..?"  
He trailed off, waiting for the detective to answer.  
Sounding like he was doing his best to not have hope, he finally spoke.  
"How can you find out?"  
Smiling to himself at a small victory to do with his stubborn brother, Mycroft said he would look into it in more depth before calling again, leaving Sherlock once again alone with his demons.  
He hadn't eaten since John left, and if he could remember the date correctly, it had been three days. In no mood to rectify that fact, he walked upstairs to John's room, both because he couldn't reach his own due to the broken glass, and the fact their joint bedroom would have the essence of John on everything in the room. Ignoring his mental outcry at the outrageous sentimentality of the act, he lay down in the bed, curling up among the smell of clean, tea and just pure John, he fell into a lonely sleep.  
Woken by sharp ringing, he answered his phone sleepily.  
"Mycroft." he yawned, unable to put disdain in his voice after just being roused.  
"I know where John is. Moriarty has left the country for a few days, so you'll just have to watch out for his right hand man for now."  
***  
"You want me to go after him?"  
"I thought you would want to..." Mycroft said, now unsure. He was positive Sherlock would want to be involved.  
"It's not me. I don't know if John would want me there."  
"Don't be ridiculous, brother. Of course he will."  
Sighing, he said no more on the matter.  
"Text me the address."  
"Do you have a weapon? You may encounter resistance. While I will have people on the outside, it's up to you to get him out."  
"I have. You're ready now?"  
After he was text the address, he grabbed John's gun, which the man had left behind. Holding the cold metal in his hand, he held back a shiver. This wouldn't change anything. Just because Moriarty wasn't treating John like he should didn't mean he would want Sherlock at all. Still, he would follow John to the ends of the earth, protecting him with his life despite the fact the man could never return his feelings.  
Taking a cab to the address, he found that it was a ramshackle house, looking like it hadn't been lived in for centuries to the untrained eye, but not to the consulting detective. Seeing old and a few new footsteps going around to the back of the house and not the front, as well as slight disturbances in the dirt on the windowsills, he knew this was the correct place. Making his way around to the back door, he took out the gun, ready for anything. As he took in the apparently dilapidated door, he noted that the lock was new. Pulling out his lock-picking set, he quickly opened the door, silently pushing it just enough to fit in before shutting it, noting that it was new on the inside. Obviously the old house on the outside was for anonymity.  
Pointing the gun at the ground, he made his way though the house, searching first for enemy occupants and, upon finding none, John.  
"John! Are you here?" he said as loudly as he dared, not trusting there to be no one around with ill intentions.   
"Sherlock!" he heard faintly, from below; obviously there was a basement.  
Searching for the stairs down to it, he finally found it past a door off of the kitchen. Seeing yet another new lock on the basement entrance, he quickly picked it to find John squinting in the bright light, obviously not used to it.  
"Sherlock, oh thank god." he exclaimed once his eyes adjusted.  
"Is Moran here?"  
"I don't know. Let's not find out." he said slowly, as if trying to keep calm.   
With Sherlock leading with the gun, they made their way through the house, until they got to the back door, which was locked.   
"Shit. Can't we go out the front?"  
"We could, but I left this door unlocked. Someone's here."   
"Sherlock!" he heard before he was pushed down onto the ground roughly as a shot rang out. As a burning pain started in his arm, the gun was pulled from his hand. He heard two more shots before everything fell silent.  
"Sherlock, are you ok? Did you get hit?" John asked frantically as he knelt next to the detective, checking for wounds.  
Sitting up, he pushed John away.  
"You don't have to check, I'm fine." he lied, turning away the arm the bullet had hit. It wasn't a deep wound, merely a graze, but it still hurt. Looking back down the hall he saw the dead body slowly bleeding out into the timber flooring. "I suppose that's Moran?"  
"Yeah. Nasty piece of work. Glad he's dead to be honest."  
Nodding, Sherlock led them out the front door, making sure there were no other threats, before relaxing. He fished out his wallet and took out three twenties and handed them to John.  
"For a taxi," he explained "since I doubt they left you with anything other than your clothes." he murmured before starting to walk up the road onto the main street to hail his own cab.  
Confused, John ran after him.  
"And where are you going?"  
"Home." Sherlock said dryly, like he was trying to tell an idiot.  
"But, I am too."  
"I know that."   
"Then why are we getting separate taxis?"  
"I obviously don't know where you live."  
"I live with you, Sherlock, remember?" he said slowly as if speaking to a tiny child.  
"You left." Sherlock said simply, the words ringing out into a deep silence before John nearly dropped, his eyes widening. In all the action he had momentarily forgotten what he had said to Sherlock.  
"Oh God. Oh Sherlock." he breathed quietly as he wrapped the younger man in a tight hug. "That wasn't real. I'm so sorry."  
"Wait, so you..." Sherlock looked half broken and half hopeful. "You weren't...with him?"  
"No, of course I wasn't. How could I be with anyone but you?"  
"All those things you said..."  
"Not real. Moriarty was telling me what to say the entire time. They were awful things, but he would have killed you if I didn't do it. Hush, it's alright, it's over." he soothed, rubbing Sherlock's back as the detective gripped him tightly as he wept into his shoulder.  
"I thought you had left me." he sobbed, resting his head in the crook of John's neck.  
Smiling slightly, John shook his head. "I love you Sherlock Holmes, and I will never leave you."


End file.
